The Imperial Waltz
by Des Darling
Summary: Forced to attend an Imperial ball, Darth Vader is content to brood in a corner; that is, until a beautiful senator seeks out his help.


If this looks suspiciously familiar to you, you would be correct! This is a repost of a story I wrote last year. While struggling to write the second part, I realized that many of my issues were stemming from lingering unhappiness with the execution of the first. And while I initially believed a few edits would remedy my dissatisfaction, what it ultimately took was opening a second window and re-writing it. Although much of the overall direction and language of this part is retained, I feel that it is different enough on its own and building toward a different ending to warrant removing the old story and reposting this new (and much improved) version. So, without further ado, I give you the brand-new first chapter...

 **The Imperial Waltz**

 **Part I**

Revelry, the Emperor called it, but Darth Vader knew that the balls and soirées were little more than decadent torture. One command and he was bound to a night of brooding pillar-side while partygoers and servitor droids flew past from all sides. The chaos of costumed bodies and polished droids always reminded him of the traffic on Coruscant—a web of organized chaos—but the dance floor in the center of the ballroom was all Tatooine. Although awash with dancers, the sprawling floors of the Imperial Palace glimmered like sands gilded by the planet's twin suns. Even now, all these years later, Vader still remembered them burning against the pale blue sky as the Emperor stole him away from his home world.

He frowned at his drink, at the cluster of ice cubes melting in the puddle of alcohol at the bottom of the glass. Few things could make him feel anything but vague discomfort or dissatisfaction or really anything at all, but the image of the blinding glare of the dunes struck him like his master's fury, sent electricity spooling through his veins and writhing tight in his chest. Twenty one years of interminable darkness and hatred had swallowed up almost all of the slave boy who had lived in squalor in the sands. Vader remembered so little of his past now that he often wondered if it had faded like a dream because it _was_ one; something to remind him that there was a world beyond his enslavement to the Emperor. A world that, if the stars aligned in some impossibly benevolent way, he could escape to if this all were to collapse.

Peals of laughter echoing from the dance floor lured his gaze away from his drink and to a couple on the fringes of the dancing. A young man no older than Vader himself swept a girl off of her feet without warning, twirling her in a circle as a storm of ivory lace and pale peach ribbons raged around them. In the eye of the beautiful chaos, the girl's brown eyes were wide with delight, gold flecks glistening while her chest heaved as though her heart pursued a desperate escape. With little difficulty, Vader imagined himself standing where that man stood, loved so passionately by the brown-eyed girl.

 _But,_ his fist tightened vice-like around his drink, he would never stand there, and that world in which he was unfettered by darkness and vows penned in blood would never exist because the stars hated him so; while lives were lived and loves loved, Vader would keep melting into the shadows until the memories of sunlight faded entirely and there was nothing left of him but a monster.

He scowled at the glass in his hand as it crumbled into the wet shards raining down on his boots.

He needed another drink.

As he stalked toward the refreshments arranged on a trio of tables hugging the west wall, Vader felt the energy lazing through the crowds of revelers shift. Circles tightened. Wary gazes lingered on him. Lone partygoers flitted to other corners of the ballroom.

By the time he began helping himself to another beverage, the closest person stood thirty feet away, interrupting her conversation with warning glances at him over her shoulder.

He was not particularly bothered by it, was what he reminded himself as he surveyed the slim-necked flutes spiraling on the tray that the servitor droid extended toward him. Flushed shades of blue and amber, each offered a different escape from the party and the people whose approval he knew he should not want but craved anyway. His gloved fingers seemed to dwarf the glass when he finally made his choice, mulling over the idea that he might want to be a part of the titter and chatter steadily rising over the orchestra.

No, he finally decided and took a long drink, leaving but an inch of alcohol at the curved bottom of the glass. If he had wanted these people to pretend to enjoy his presence with terror veiled thinly beneath their cloying words, he would have worn the damn suit. All he really wanted to do was play silent connoisseur and lounge pillar-side and try to forget that he was anything but—

 _"There you are."_

The flute tumbled from Vader's grasp when a hand fell on his forearm.

His breath halted.

It was the first time in years that anyone had touched him, and his head whipped to the side.

Pretty. Soft. Glass-like. Those were the words that his mind conjured the moment his eyes fell upon the woman whose hand had petrified him. Swathed in gossamer lavender and ivory, she was a petite thing—hardly taller than his shoulder and certainly half as thin as him. Her skin was pale but not pallor, a striking contrast to her dark hair and eyes that gleamed beneath the ballroom's golden light. Hundreds of loose curls floated around her shoulders, boasting a spiraling constellation of white blooms.

Breath strangled in his lungs, Vader stood still, stared as the opulence of the ballroom faded to gray around her. She was easily the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"I've been looking for you all night." She pressed, and those dark eyes pleaded with him to stop gaping and say _something._ Over her shoulder, a man sneered at Vader with accusing eyes.

Awake—like he had spent years ambling through the world half-asleep and controlled by instinct and someone else's desires. For the first time in years, Vader seemed to feel _everything_ : the cold dampness of condensation leeching through the fabric of his gloves, the suffocating heat of anticipation enveloping him, _the desperation and fear rippling off of the woman in waves._

He fought the rigid, mechanical inclination of his limbs as he folded his gloved hand over the woman's smooth knuckles. A smirk spread across his lips, and he reveled in the delight of taunting: "Thank you for helping her find me."

Shock scrunched the other man's feature. He tipped his chin back, his eyes haughty and his lips curling into a sneer even more contemptuous than it previously had been when his gaze fell upon their clasped hands. Before the man could challenge his assertion, the woman slid an arm around Vader's waist and settled against his side, their bodies fitting together like spoons. Goaded by both the man's flagrance and the woman's touch, Vader drew his cape around her shoulders and grinned dangerously at him—all teeth and malice. The man withered beneath his gaze and scampered off, disappearing into the thicket of revelers behind him.

"My savior," the woman proclaimed with an amused edge in her voice once the man was gone entirely. Gently, she withdrew herself from Vader's embrace, turning to face him and crossing her arms. Staring up at him still, her eyes were no longer welled with desperation—now bright, mischievous even. "I don't suppose you would tell me your name?"

The name Vader hovered on the tip of his tongue, eager to betray his identity. But he didn't _feel_ like Vader—certainly not at that moment, at least—and the thought of frightening her was strangely unwelcome.

"Anakin." His chest tightened with guilt the moment he said it. He felt like a liar, a petty thief stealing the name of a child.

Entirely oblivious to his turmoil, she nodded, content. Each syllable flowing carefully off of her tongue, she tried it for herself, "Anakin."

There was a little quip of surprise at the very end, as though something about the name was pleasantly unexpected. Her brown eyes twinkled, lips curled into a bit of a saucy smile, arms still folded across her chest. The relaxed confidence of her posture was enough to tell him that she was someone of status, the kind born of her own talents and not birth, but Vader could not reign in his eyes as they slid down the length of her body and noted the delicate craftsmanship of her dress to confirm.

"And here I thought this dress would draw the least attention." She teased when she followed his gaze back up the willowy curves of her body and back to her eyes.

Cheeks hot with burning blood, Vader tore his gaze away from hers and cast it to the tips of his boots. "And your name?" He chuffed.

"Padmé." The name tumbled from her lips as a laugh, light and lilting.

 _Padmé._ He had heard the name before, hissing through the teeth of his master, accompanying her formal title. So she was the obstinate senator, the champion of democracy, and the great agitator of the Galactic Empire. Vader suppressed a smile; oh, he liked her already. And since she had believed his charade, he had enough of a gentleman left in him to respect and humor her in her own.

"Padmé." He echoed with a nod. A name delicate but strong. _Fitting._

"You don't strike me as the kind of person who would enjoy these sorts of gatherings, Anakin." She probed.

Maybe it was the general aura of displeasure that gave him away—not that he had ever tried to reign in his contempt of these parties. Though few ever dared, Vader hated when anyone attempted to pry but equally hated the idea of lying to her again. Settling on a half-truth and hoping it was enough to satisfy her, he responded, "I only come for the drinks."

"I see." She said at length, eyeing him curiously. Her knowing smile was resilient, still proudly in place on her rosy lips. She unfolded her arms and dropped her hands to her hips in a languid movement. It was a common enough gesture, but the subtle feather of the muscles in her hands betrayed a sort of latent cunning—as if at any moment she could strike at him. Warily, he regarded her when she proclaimed: "It would be rude of me to not offer you a dance after you helped ward off that man."

"I don't dance." He immediately shifted his weight to his dominant leg, poised to ground himself or run if need be, attention flitting from her eyes to her hands, hands back to eyes. Mischief danced in her gaze, and every muscle in his body tensed in a sort of anxious anticipation. Maybe it was intuition, insightfulness, intense familiarity with poor luck...whatever sense, it prickled on the back of his neck and thrilled electric along the length of his arms.

"Of course you do. It's easy." She struck, catching one of his hands between her own.

His ensuing protests went ignored as she overcame his pitiful attempt at resistance and began hauling him toward the center of the ballroom, that single touch of her hands melting away all of the strength and stubbornness that coiled in his limbs. The crowd did not part as they approached—as if seeing Vader with such a delicate woman was proof enough of his humanity, as if inexplicably winning her favor was enough to win theirs. Boisterous laughter and the sweltering heat of closely-packed bodies suffocated him as they wandered through the crowd; he kept his eyes on her hand, a small pale thing, clasped with his own. Naturally, his gaze followed the gentle curves of her arm right up to her bicep, which was peppered with scars old and healing alike. Another smile tugged at the corners of his lips. No, not as soft and fragile as he had initially assumed.

At last, when they slipped out of the crowd and onto the edge of the dance floor, Padmé released his hand. Vader vaguely remembered sunlight pouring through the great glass panes yawning on the opposite wall; now, silver moonlight rippled into the hall in waves. The shimmering haze enveloped the remaining dancers, wreathing them in silver and transforming them into specters gliding smoothly across the floor. As she strode into the scene, Padmé effortlessly blended into the ethereal dancing, the ivory of her clothing and the fair alabaster of her skin practically luminescent. Her brown eyes glistened and beckoned as she looked at Vader over her shoulder, a single hand outstretched to him; in concealed wonderment, he stared back at the angel framed by the darkling sky beyond, unaware that his breath had faltered. Soft but stunning. He had never seen anything like her, would likely _never_ see anything like her again for the rest of eternity.

Just as the silver haze gradually crept, consumed all in its path, so too did a single thought— _a desire_ —envelop his mind and melt away the dissatisfaction, the regret, the impossible fantasies of pasts and futures that would never suit him no matter how much he wished that they would.

 _You don't deserve her,_ his conscience warned as it slowly sank into something sweet and languid and consuming.

But it did not stop him from wanting her anyway.

 **End**

I hope that you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I'm looking forward to sharing the second part with everyone soon. In the mean time, if you would leave a comment or two on your way out, I would greatly appreciate it!


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